Dusktail - A Tale of Redwall
by Darkenmal
Summary: Book 1 : Warriors and Runaways: Two sons, of a hated foe. One story is nearly done, but another has only just begun. A final choice to be made, as the warrior's son finally sees his day. A debt long forgotten, will finally be paid.
1. Prologue - Part 1

You may have noticed that instead of publishing another chapter, I have instead gone backwards and posted a prologue instead. The reason for this is that the story, as J.R.R. Tolkien put it, 'grew in in the telling.'

Events that happened in the past grew much larger and broad then I anticipated, and because they are so important to Dusktail's overall story I felt obligated to begin writing them.

After this and another prologue chapter, I will write another Dusktail chapter to finish off his cliffhanger (although not his overall story) and then finish off the rest of the prologues.

A point of potential confusion is that Swiftpaw begins writing his memoirs in Chapter 2, but in the first prologue chapter he is seen to be completing the first chapter of his works. To help clear this up, think of it this way.

Swiftpaw is writing his memoirs in present day, but the actual content of his memoirs is what takes place in the past, ie: the prologue chapters. Hopefully this make sense, and anyone confused feel free to shoot me a PM or leave a review.

The story will be completed, one way or another. It's just taking a different route to get there. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

* * *

Prologue - Part 1

The sun shone brightly in the sky while the Badger Lord still wrote, once in a while briefly pausing to dip his quill into the inkwell. Swiftpaw realized he was hunched over, and he straightened. He looked enviously at the beautiful, clear sky, aching to go outside and enjoy the summer's day... but something stopped him from doing so.

He regarded the scroll he had recently written with disdain, and as he leaned closer to continue to write, he found himself putting his quill to the side. He rubbed his ink-spotted paws together and glanced outside, and again at the huge pile of scrolls that littered the table. "_Maybe if I burned them all, I could be rid of it," _Swiftpaw mused. He briefly imagined himself setting alight the whole table, and felt a certain sense of satisfaction at the pleasant image: his entire work burning to cinders.

The Badger Lord snorted, and held up the scroll close to the window, blowing on it softly and letting the air get at it. Such thoughts were not new, and they had only increased the closer he had gotten to finishing his account_._

With a sigh of relief, he realized he was now close to finishing the summary of the event he had blocked shut in his mind for over sixteen seasons. Glancing at the scroll and seeing that it was now dry, he put it gingerly on the desk, smoothing it over like a new-born babe as he went to go pick up his quill once again.

In the corner of his eye, Swiftpaw noticed the earliest recordings he had written of his account, and he pulled it out. Coming to a swift decision, he gathered his scrolls and stood up, noting with satisfaction that a slight breeze had started, blowing the smell of the sea that he so loved into his dusty bedroom.

"I need some fresh air," the badger muttered, and he left the room to go to a quiet place to read over the first part of his account that he had written thus far.

* * *

_Eighteen seasons previously..._

The air was thick with the sounds of arms smashing into each other, grunts as hares repelled strikes from other hares, all of this mixed in with the smell of sweat, along with the occasional hint of blood that permeated the training grounds.

Colonel Karth watched his hares as they fought each other, as each of them squared off into separate duels. Doing his rounds, whenever he saw a mistake he would correct it and force them to repeat until it was to his satisfaction. Others could do the job and probably better, but he always found himself doing it instead. He liked the bonding experience with his fellow hares. It gave him great pleasure in helping others become who they were born to be: hares of the famous Long Patrol.

He stopped his pacing as he spotted the nearest pair to him redoubling their efforts, both well aware that their commander was watching.

At this Karth smiled to himself. He had been like them at their age; the allure and glory of the higher ranks had always been ever-present to him. He remembered listening in rapt awe at the tales of valor and heroics that the veterans would bring back from patrols, or even from prior battles. He had worshiped them, at least until he had seen combat.

Then it had all changed.

Karth's smile changed into a frown, and the still-dueling hares frantically redoubled their efforts, their strikes and blocks taking on a frenzied state as they sought to impress their Colonel, along with the other hares close by that stopped to watch.

With a start, Karth realized that the dueling recruits thought that his frown was meant for them and that something was wrong, and he quickly blew his whistle and called a halt. Instantly the recruits stopped, their chests heaving with exertion as they stood stiffly at attention, as Karth walked over to where they stood.

"You both were doing fine, lads. Pay no attention to me, and continue at a less... rapid pace. Is that understood? I don't want to face either of your mothers coming to see me and wondering why their son is short a head." The two recruits muttered something affirmative, and Karth decided to have a little fun with them.

"I said, IS THAT UNDERSTOOD, RECRUITS!" Karth bellowed, the sound drawing attention of everybeast in the yard as the two recruits jumped at the sudden noise, and each quickly responded with a swift salute and the time honored reply.

"Sah yes sah!" the two hares replied, staring straight ahead as Karth smiled appreciatively, his grin reflected back at him by the two hares as he continued his lecture.

"Very good, recruits. Now take up your arms again, only this time with a-"

He stopped as he heard a loud creak, the mountain's main entrance gates squealing as they were forced open in a great hurry. Quickly turning, he spotted something passing through the gates in the corner of his eye. When the figure drew closer, he saw something that quickly took him back to his younger days.

A Long Patrol runner, covered in blood and dust, blood-stained sabre still clenched in his right paw, lopsidedly ran through the still-opening gate. The runner trotted confusedly for a few moments, until he saw Karth. Upon spotting the colonel, the scout turned and began sprinting straight towards him.

The training grounds immediately became still as the runner moved towards the colonel, and with a start, Karth realized that his paw was resting on the hilt of his sword. "_Old habits die hard,_" the colonel mused, as the runner came ever closer to him, baring news that was doubtless unpleasant.

* * *

Maia rushed up the stairs, almost bowling over a leveret as she took the stairs two at a time. Calling back an apology, she quickly reached the top of the stairs and continued at her brisk pace, glancing through open doors and moving a little faster when she saw that Swiftpaw wasn't there.

"_Stubborn,_" the badger mused with a wry smile. When Swiftpaw did not want to be found, he could be a very elusive creature. However, being the Badger Lady of Salamandastron did have its benefits.

Quickly brushing past some Long Patrol guards, she burst into the Badger Lord's forge and walked towards a sacred place that was forbidden to all others. Glancing around to see that nobeast was watching, she walked up to the boulder and threw her body against it, feeling a primal sense of satisfaction as the huge chunk of rock quickly moved to the side, the doorway now unblocked.

She reverently gazed upon the legendary rulers of Salamandastron's distant past as she walked towards the only other living beast in the room. The air inside smelled of dust and stone, while the ancient Badger Lords stared down at her grimly as she walked down the hallway. "_Hard rulers for a hard time,_" Maia thought as she peered at the Badger Lords and Ladies from Salamandastron's distant past.

Her paw-steps echoed as she continued to walk, lost in her own thoughts. She paused at Boar the Fighter's place and tepidly placed a paw on his throne. Staring up at the armor that encased the badger's remains, she wondered at how long this could go on. Badgers ruling Salamandastron. She turned around and saw the ancient mountain's current ruler.

Swiftpaw sat upon the ancient throne, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in concentration as he breathed deep, completely unaware of Maia as she approached him. Drawing closer, she could see tinges of white on his muzzle, along with a tiredness that almost shocked her. He looked worn out, the weight of command almost too much to bear.

Suddenly, Swiftpaw's eyes opened and he smiled, although Maia was sure that it was for her benefit.

"I see I have been followed," the Badger Lord said, his eyes twinkling as he slowly stood up from his throne.

"I have at last received a reply," Maia retorted, not allowing the conversation to turn into one of jest. More serious matters were at hand.

Swiftpaw's face sagged as he realized the true reason for this unusual visit.

"So you are leaving us at last then," Swiftpaw said bitterly, his gaze staring right through her as he continued to walk down the battered stone steps, his footpaws bringing up dust and chunks of stone as he descended.

"I fear that I must," Maia replied. Swiftpaw finally reached her, and they stood there gazing at each other for a few moments until she brought herself back to the present.

"We have at last received word from Redwall, and all of it is bad. The Abbey is in a state of war it seems; a new warlord and his followers have been gaining support from most of the vermin in Mossflower, and beyond."

"From beyond?" Swiftpaw echoed, the confusion in his tone evident as he started to pace back and forth. The pacing was an old habit of his that he had been desperately trying to break lately, with the usual predictable results of whenever he had tried to break any of his habits.

The Badger Lord had begun talking again as she had been musing, and she responded with the first thing that entered her mind, "Yes, Swiftpaw."

Swiftpaw's face broke into a smile as he reacted to her words. "You mean you will stay? No more of this foolish visit to the Abbey?"

Instantly, Maia regretted ever speaking, as now she would have to break his heart again, and this time it was entirely her fault, and no other beast's.

"No, Swiftpaw, I spoke without thinking," Maia said gently, regretting every word that she spoke.

Swiftpaw's face turned into a mask, as he kept his smile on his face but not in his eyes and began to usher her along.

"Come with me, wife. I have something to show you."

Not allowing herself to be placated, she firmly stood her ground and rounded on the Badger Lord.

"You still have not heard what I have had to say yet! Stop running and come back here, Badger Lord, or I swear I will-"

"Leave?" The Badger Lord interrupted, the twinkle in his eye returning.

Maia allowed herself a small smile. Perhaps this would not go over as badly as she had originally feared.

"The reason that I had to interrupt your meditation is because the patrol you sent out returned today. He is eager to see you."

"Only one," Swiftpaw said softly, and Maia knew that she now had his complete and undivided attention.

"Yes, although that isn't the worst news. You'd best come with me quickly, I don't think he has much time left."

* * *

As the runner approached Karth, he wondered how the runner could still be upright and moving as the closer he got, the more he could distinguish the wounds that littered his torso, all of them bad. The runner, a young hare that had recently ascended to the position, looked like he was about to pass out as he stopped in front of the Colonel and saluted.

"Colonel Karth sah!" the hare puffed, laboriously holding the salute. Despite himself, Karth could not help but notice the little details as he studied the young runner. A recent scar went across his cheek, most likely the result of an arrow or a branch. His tunic, once completely spotless, was almost ripped to shreds, the result of whatever the hare was about to tell him. Glancing again at the slices and wounds across the runner, Karth realized the urgency of the situation. He might not have much time left.

"At ease, runner." The runner lowered his arm, almost stumbling as he let his arms fold behind his back in the 'at ease' position. Karth held out his arms to steady the soldier, and the other hare nodded in thanks. Karth felt impatience, and anger. He would find whoever did this, he vowed silently.

"Feel free to speak, private." Karth said loudly, letting his voice echo throughout the training grounds. He didn't have time to take him to a private area so he could properly debrief the soldier. The wounds, and the dizziness from completing simple actions, clearly showed that time was of the essence. The runner realized this as well, and began speaking quickly.

"We were about to leave Redwall just a half-moon previously," the young hare spoke, and although he spoke softly, his voice carried throughout the entire courtyard. Every hare present in the yard leaned in closer to hear and spoke not a word as the runner continued his tale.

The hare paused, almost unwilling to go on next. Impatiently, the Colonel nodded his head, and the young hare swallowed nervously, but persevered and continued speaking.

"After exchanging the letters written, Abbot Albus took Captain Striker aside and spoke a few words with him. I did not hear what was said, sah, but later as he was dying, he told me what had happened. The reason he did not tell us is we would have gone after them the second... the second we would have heard."

"Heard what?" Colonel Karth asked, and with a sinking feeling, he thought he knew what the scout was about to say.

"It's about their Dibbuns, sah."

Karth felt a pain in his paw and realized that his right paw had been tightly clenching the hilt of his sword. Releasing it and taking a calming breath, he nodded his head and said, "Continue."

* * *

Captain Striker of the Long Patrol left Redwall, his prior good cheer gone as he grimly reflected on the news that he had been recently told.

He remembered Abbot Albus: younger than he but grown old before his time, wearily beckoning him to a secluded corner so they could talk privately.

In the corner of his eye, he could see young Blythe, the newest recruit to his party, watching closely as he allowed himself to be pulled to the side. Striker remembered wondering why he wanted the Abbot to speak to him, and him alone.

When the mouse was sure that nobeast else was listening, he began speaking slowly, his reluctance to speak clear on his face. Listening to the mouse talk, Striker could not believe what he was hearing.

"You are tellin' me," the hare said in a hushed tone, wary of eavesdroppers; "that a half-dozen of yore Dibbuns have been kidnapped, and that you haven't told me of this earlier?"

The Abbot look scandalized for a brief moment, but calmed himself as he spoke in a lowered but intense tone.

"With all due respect, Captain, I have not been able to get a chance to speak to you privately until now."

The admission took Striker aback, and the captain bit off a few choice statements as he searched for an answer. The mouse watched patiently, until the hare spluttered out a complete sentence.

"Why," Striker retorted, voice dripping with scorn, "did you have to tell me this alone? Why could the squad not listen to this as well?"

The Abbot glanced about quickly, his nervousness as plain as the habit he wore as he looked for any unwanted listeners. Seeing none, the graying mouse looked at Striker straight in the eye.

"Could you stop your hares from going after them, Captain? From charging in to certain death? You must go back to Salamandastron and come back with the full might of the Long Patrol."

The mouse bitterly scrubbed a paw across his eyes, hating himself for having to ask for outside help, even from long-time friends such as the renowned hares from the Long Patrol. His heart leapt for the first time in a few moons as the hare immediately nodded his head, and the mouse allowed himself to feel something that he had not allowed himself to feel in a long time.

Hope.

Striker remembered with a hint annoyance at how quickly he had agreed to keep it from the rest of his hares. Knowing his hares, he quickly recognized that if they had any inkling of the situation, immediately they would set off after the stolen Dibbuns, with or without him.

It did not make him resent the situation any less however, especially in the way he had been instructed.

The mouse had suggested that he return to Salamandastron with reinforcements, assuring them that the babes would survive until then, albeit obviously not under the best of conditions.

Striker gritted his teeth as he recalled how the mouse had told him how they had originally been captured. They had gone out in the morning to pick some berries for a pie, but only a few had returned, covered in blood that was not their own, among other things.

He shuddered at the rest of the details, all of which too horrible to even think about. Pushing the thoughts of the Dibbuns from his mind, he reminded himself sternly that he was leader of this outfit, and that he must pay attention at all times.

"Blythe!" The Captain called, hoping that the young scout was somewhere near by.

Thankfully, he was, and after a few agonizing moments, the scout reappeared from the bush, ready to give an account of what he had seen.

"Report," Striker ordered the runner.

In a precise tone, the runner outlined what he had seen. Tracks, all leading off in strange directions, before heading back in a vague loop and eventually disappearing entirely.

"Disappearing?" the captain echoed, and he saw his confusion echoed in the scout's eyes.

"It just does not make sense, Captain. But never fear, we will soon sniff out the blackguards, wot."

Striker looked out into the woods and shivered. He remembered the Abbot telling him of the ambushes, along the results of failed rescue attempts, and made a snap decision.

"No. I do not want anyone to get lost. Mossflower Woods can be dangerous, especially considering other... things. No fires, no carrying calls; no whoops or shouts. We march as quickly as possible, and everybeast to be on high alert. I want all of you treating this as if we are in hostile territory."

The entire company instantly stilled, their faces all full of stunned disbelief, until the sergeant starting yelling out for them to get back into formation... with a lowered tone. The lessened tone seemed to really bring the orders home, and the hares quickly and efficiently went into position, everybeast of the score that he had brought with him ready and waiting within a few moments. Soon they were all staring at him silently as they waited for further orders.

Striker released his breath, not aware that he had been holding it the whole time. Just for a moment he thought he saw something moving in the corner of his eye in the foliage, but he reasoned it was just the wind. "_Eyes playing tricks on me again,_"the captain thought sourly as he signaled the column to proceed.

"I just pray that we are not too late," Striker muttered, and he went to the back of the column, blissfully unaware of what was to come.

* * *

A big thanks to the amazing Sauron Gorthaur for his ruthless editing skills! The next part is coming along well and Prologue 2 should be online ASAP.

Cheers!


	2. Prologue - Part 2

_You say you heed my orders, to lead, and not to follow?_

_Lies, every word, empty phrases, all of them hollow._

_You seek to undo the past?_

_You are not alone, many have tried._

_Few are ready for the final goodbye. _

_However, I can give you this,_

_This one last thing, your fondest wish._

_The one you love, this one that you seek._

_You would search, your agony so close to being unleashed._

_You would die for her, as you continue to say._

_What you have done cannot ever be repaid._

_You say that you don't believe me, that you still hesitate?_

_Watch closely as it vanishes, while you are filled with hate._

_Dim echoes of the past, slowly fading away._

_Struggling to keep the ravages of time at bay._

_This one last memory, I will allow._

_Simple, but yet still profound._

* * *

Prologue - Part 2

Swiftpaw gently put down the first chapter, his editing complete for the time being. He felt a certain sense of satisfaction at that, at how close he really was to seeing his life's work complete and finished. It felt odd, but in a good way.

Swiftpaw reached for the next parchment but was quickly interrupted by a intense growl from his stomach. He glanced up and saw that the sun was near its apex, indicating that it was close to midday. With a start, Swiftpaw realized that he had been up for almost an entire day, with no sleep and with little sustenance.

"_I need to rest,_" the Badger Lord reflected to himself wryly. He glanced at the rest of his work and felt a stab of irritation. How he wished he could work all day and all night, with no need for sleep or eating.

"I will rest when I am dead," Swiftpaw whispered.

Gathering his work quickly, he stood and began to walk back towards his study, hoping for a quick meal and perhaps a nap. True rest was hard to come by, but whenever he found himself working on his account, he found it easier; his personal demons kept temporarily at bay.

Absentmindedly, Swiftpaw kicked up a few tuffs of ash. He watched as the coarse sand was thrown into the air and how the wind played with it for a few moments before depositing it in a different place. It stayed there unmoving, its spot now permanent until nature or otherwise decided to move it again.

Amused, the badger kicked another tuff and watched as the process repeated itself, with the sand being coercively shifted from its location and forced to move elsewhere. Suddenly, the badger felt bitterness and began to walk faster, the game now forgotten and replaced by darker thoughts.

"_Why do I find such pleasure in destruction? Why can I not find the same pleasure in building, to see things grow, or even at raising our own son-"_

The badger paused in his step and listened, unsure of why he even stopped.

The only sounds he could hear were the muted echoes of his hares practising sword play, and the distant, omnipresent sea rolling to and from the Western Shores. He wondered if his son had come back to the mountain yet, after their quarrel. He hoped that he would forgive him. For what had been said.

The thought of his son triggered the sense of loss that had been always present in him. Something about Melator always reminded him of what had been lost. He had wanted to be a good father, to be a friend, to help him become a far better creature then he was, and he had failed.

Grief washed over him like a wave, and the badger found himself desperately holding onto his last vestiges of sanity. Swiftpaw stood there, completely oblivious to anything but his own self-pity.

"_My fault..."_

With everything he had, Swiftpaw forced himself back to the present, away from that horrible time where he once had a future, a time in his life where life was perfect. How wrong he had been.

Suddenly, he found himself close to the front gate, and with a stiff nod to the guard the gates opened, and the Badger Lord continued through, barely noticing the salutes and the polite nods of the officers.

What did draw his attention was the fact that Melator was in the dueling arena again, egged on by his friend Buck no doubt. He still remembered what it was like to be young and reckless, to be full of enthusiasm and energy. To be within the swirling tempest that was your sense of self. Swiftpaw remembered how long it had taken him to reach and find himself, and what it took to finally accept it.

Swiftpaw still remembered the rage that he felt that day. Unconsciously, he clenched his paw into a fist and felt the scar there. "_Never forget..._"

He almost found himself going towards his son, but the rational part of his mind took over.

Avoiding the potential confrontation, Swiftpaw turned the other way and moved on towards the comfort of his study.

"_How odd that I now find more comfort in my writings than in the art of war," _Swiftpaw thought sardonically.

Maybe it was best that there were no more wars to be fought, no more blood to be shed.

It would have felt more convincing if he had meant it.

* * *

_Eighteen seasons previously..._

Blythe walked silently on the far right side of the company, always keeping the column in the corner of his eye as he also watched for tracks, or for any other identifying features that might help him catch his prey.

A few minutes earlier, he had noticed that the sun was starting to set, which would quickly turn his job from something incredibly difficult to downright impossible. At first, when he had spotted the tracks, he thought little of them. Redwallers and other creatures travelled through these parts of the woods all the time, and even the less reputable ones that did would not dare bother an elite squad of Long Patrol hares. This meant nothing, as the manner in which they seemed to appear and disappear at will concerned him deeply.

Once in a while, he would see strange tracks leading to somewhere, but he would always end up stumped as they would inevitably lead to a small river or stream. The trail would literally run cold, and Blythe would find himself getting angry at losing the tracks so easily, at least until he found some new ones, and all over again he would repeat the process.

"Downright confounding this is," Blythe muttered warily, pulling something from his foot-paw for what seemed the umpteenth time. He had been barely able to argue against the Captain about pulling himself, along with a few others, tighter into the column. He had only been allowed this much leeway because he had promised that he would keep the patrol within the corner of his eye at all times, and Striker had looked leery at letting him have even that.

Blythe had to remind the Captain that he would be far better off at having at least a small curvature of scouts, and that wandering the countryside blind, as they gradually followed River Moss back into the sea, would be a bad idea. Surprisingly, Captain Striker had agreed, and Blythe's lack of getting chewed out pretty much confirmed the scout's suspicions.

Something was dreadfully wrong at the Abbey.

The whole business at Redwall still seemed fishy to the young scout, although the whole thing didn't click together for him until the very end of the visit, when he had seen the tired-looking Abbot pull Striker to the side for a 'brief moment'.

He had not been able to hear anything, but the way the Abbot had looked around nervously, along with the Captain's face turning unusually grave as he continued to speak... it gave Blythe a chill, even though it wasn't cold.

A thunderous crack made the scout jump, and with a glance, he realized it was thunder. The flash was so bright that Blythe was temporarily blinded, and he leaned against a nearby tree and scrubbed his eyes, trying to regain his sight as quickly as possible. Just as the light receded from the sky, Blythe heard a snap behind him that sounded like a branch breaking.

Whirling, the hare saw nothing; the lightning bolt had destroyed his night-vision a few moments before. Scrubbing his eyes angrily, Blythe jumped when he heard a lightning bolt again.

Instead of staring at the sky, he looked around himself, hoping to find the source of the unaccounted branch.

In the still-illuminated area, he found himself completely surrounded by vermin, with no hope of retreat or surrender.

Reacting quickly, Blythe yanked the dagger from his side and threw himself at the closest vermin, hoping that the element of surprise could get him a kill before he went down.

Nobeast moved but his opponent, who launched himself to the side with a silent snarl. Blythe stood still as the vermin's paws curled around the hilt of his sword as he rolled into a crouch, warily watching Blythe as the scout stood stock still, briefly overwhelmed at the enormity of the events that were occurring before his eyes.

He glanced at the vermin around him. What were they doing? Why was only one attacking him? How would he get out of this?

The questions pounded through Blythe's brain, and he almost didn't react in time when he saw the sword strike rushing towards him, intent on cleaving him in two. Blythe stumbled and leaned backwards, barely avoiding the blade as it whooshed past his stomach. The confusion in the vermin's eyes was evident when he hit nothing, seeing a vague blur in the pitch blackness as he stumbled forward, trying to recover quickly for another blow.

Blythe didn't let him. With a shout, he leapt at his foe and stabbed downward, the knife going through the rat's throat. With a brief gurgle and an even briefer struggle, the vermin quickly became still.

The almost tranquil silence of the vermin around him was shattered as they watched one of their own being slain. A few of the quicker ones drew arrows and shot as Blythe simultaneously yanked on his knife that was still lodged in the vermin's throat.

Blythe pulled the knife sideways and by consequence, the motion moved the rat's body from in front of him to his side, right in the path of the incoming arrows. They slammed into the rat, his lifeblood spraying everywhere as Blythe twirled and threw his knife at the nearest foe, a large fox who had been watching attentively the entire time, almost as if he was studying the whole thing.

Like lightning, the fox drew his blade and swung, the knife deflecting off of the sword with a loud clang. His eyes danced with suppressed rage as he charged forward, seeking to kill Blythe quickly before he could alert anybeast for help.

"'TIS DEATH OF THE WIND! EULIALIAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

A large shout arose from behind the trees, and Striker charged out of the bush at the head of his squad, a terrible look on his face as he and the other hares behind him yelled Salamandastron's famous battle-cry.

The hares charged past Blythe, not one of them looking at him aside from Captain Striker, who gave him the briefest of nods before joining in the fray. The two forces smashed into each other, each side screaming in raw fury as they fought a desperate battle. The fox who had tried to attack him was engaged with two hares, which he dispatched with disturbing ease. What frightened Blythe the most was that he barely looked at them, his gaze piercing Blythe like a razor as he finished off the last hare by stabbing him in the heart.

Blythe reached out futilely, an unwitting sob let out as he saw of his best friend Lancejack look briefly in his direction as he died.

Blythe stood in the middle of the two forces, all aware of the cataclysmic consequences of what he had wrought. He saw the sword of his fallen enemy close to his feet and he reached for it, pulling it from the slack grip of the dead vermin, intent on using it on the fox who had killed his last.

The fox, who had taken the time to wipe his sword on a hare's tunic, raised his blade in a mock gesture of salute and stepped forwards, still intent on finishing the scout off.

Blythe raised his sword, suddenly aware of how over-matched he truly was compared to his foe.

He thought of his father and what he truly meant to him. Once feared by many and a true hare of the Long Patrol. He proudly told him that he had no fear, except of losing somebeast and being in no position to help. The scout felt an intense feeling of shame as he took a breath and breathed deep, that he would find the blade before it was too late trying to empty himself of all feeling and thought.

"_Forgive me,_" Blythe thought sadly. He stepped forward to face his foe, and the battle consumed him completely.

* * *

The battlefield was filled with the dead and dying, but one among them would yet live to see the new dawn.

Blythe leaned against a tree, breathing heavily, the shock and thrill of battle just now leaving him. The hare forced himself to inhale deeply the smell of decay and death, the stench of the blood and gore. The scent of battle. He felt like he was going to be sick, and he probably would have if he hadn't already, when he woke up amongst the corpses.

He remembered little of the battle, and what he did remember came in still images, each one more horrifying than the next, filled with death and blood. Except the screams: they continued without pause, each scream different, and each scream belonging to a friend that was now dead, and it was all his fault.

He stared at his paw and realized it was shaking.

Blythe tried to clench it into a fist and almost screamed in pain. The slash he had received across his arm had almost gone to the bone. Any movement felt like he was being stabbed with a thousand needles. He was lucky to have only received this wound, courtesy of the fox that he had dueled.

Predictably, the duel had gone badly as soon as it had started. He had managed to block the first blow... barely. The fox's strikes were deceptively strong and fast, and he had caught him flat-footed. A series of exchanges followed, and each blow the scout had blocked had gotten harder to avoid. Finally with a flick, he had found himself disarmed with the fox's blade at his throat, a cruel smirk on his face.

Just as the fox went in for the kill, Blythe had seen a sight he'd never seen in his life, and likely would never see in a hundred more lifetimes.

Captain Striker, who had been dueling multiple foes, saw in one glance his scout's predicament and had disengaged, heaving with all his might against his foes and pushing them back.

While the rat and weasel stumbled and re-orientated themselves, the Captain sprinted towards the fox, with a look in his eyes that promised death for any who dared interfere.

The fox released the tension on Blythe's throat and glanced at the hare, who had been temporarily stopped by an unfortunate vermin. A single strike nearly decapitated the stoat, and he fell limply, his head flopping as he crashed to the ground.

In a blind panic, Blythe scrambled away from the fox on all fours, hating himself while he did so.

He felt anger at his cowardice, and hatred. It was the fox's fault that this had happened. Blythe began looking for the sword that he had dropped, hoping he would find it before it was too late. He glanced up and saw the captain rapidly approaching the fox. It was about to begin.

A feeling of desperation came over Blythe, and he hoped that he would find the blade before it was too late.

* * *

He let the Bloodwrath consume him as he had never let it before. Striker's vision darkened and he felt the fabled burst of strength flood into him.

"_Let them all come," _Striker snarled to himself.

_They will all burn._

The fox had begun running towards him, and with a smile, Striker increased his pace. He ran as fast as he ever had, not feeling even slightly winded as his foe rapidly approached him.

When he judged the time was ripe, he suddenly swung, allowing his body to twist so that the full momentum of his run was transferred into the blade.

The fox dropped down in a roll and simultaneously sprung up and swung, a snarl fixed on his face as he tried to cleave the hare in half.

Despite initially missing the fox, the hare converted his swing into another strike and pivoted his entire body in a desperate effort to block the blow before it killed him.

The two blades collided, and Striker took a brief moment to look at his foe.

Striker felt the insanity of battle within him, that lust for death that he could never fully contain. As they stood, blades locked together, Striker regarded the fox and observed the cruel half-smile on his face and how his eyes bored into his.

"_You will pay for what you have done_,_" _Striker vowed.

Striker heaved on his blade and forced the fox back. A surprised look briefly flickered across his face, and Striker knew that this did not happen frequently. He was used to controlling his duels and winning quickly. Long, drawn-out duels were not a common occurrence for his foe.

He would use this knowledge against him.

Striker moved forward and swung. The fox blocked, albeit strained, his smug look now vanished as he realized that perhaps this would not be an easy fight.

The Captain of the Long Patrol swung a massive strike, one with all his might behind it. The fox blocked this again, so he unleashed everything he had. The fox blocked his blows, but a look of panic appeared on the fox's face, sensing that he could be outmatched as he was forced on the defensive.

Striker was so engaged in his fight that he almost did not see Blythe trying to sneak behind the fox. At this, Striker grunted and stopped, pulling back and allowed his weakness to show, panting heavily and lowering his blade.

A superior look on the fox's face, the vermin moved forward, anxious to kill this upstart that had made him exert himself before his followers.

With no warning Striker, stabbed forward, the point of his blade levelled at the fox's chest as he tried to distract him from Blythe, who was now directly behind him.

The fox slashed it away, not noticing until it was almost too late that Blythe was about to swing at his back.

Striker stared at Blythe, fervently hoping that his surprise attack would work. Although he found himself still able to fight, it was a near thing, and he would not be able to keep this up much longer.

The fox, looking at his eyes and seeing that he was staring at something behind him, turned quickly. As he did so, Striker swung his sword with a bellow, giving it everything that he had left.

The vermin was now caught between two foes, and while he had managed to block Blythe's sword and give him a wound in return, he could not avoid Striker's blade. Not fully.

Striker felt satisfaction as his blade cut through the air and through the fox's claws on his right paw, giving him his first real wound.

His foe dropped his sword and screamed in pain, the cry alerting every vermin around him that their chief was in danger.

Striker stepped forward eagerly, hoping that he could end the struggle quickly, but his hopefulness proved unfounded as he found himself completely surrounded by vermin.

He swung his sword in a rough arc, keeping the vermin back. Through the crowd, Striker saw Blythe go down with a club to the back of the head, the last of his patrol. His rage vanished like a snuffed out candle, and he felt remorse. He had failed them all.

One stepped forward, and the Captain of the Long Patrol ended him, stabbing him through his chest and pulling out as quickly as he could, but not quickly enough.

"_So this is it,"_ Striker thought as he fell, blood pouring from his side.

* * *

Blythe gracefully fell into nothing, and everything. Darkness surrounded him completely, and Blythe wondered if he would ever see light again. He closed his eyes as if to sleep and then opened them a few moments later.

Suddenly, the world turned green, and Blythe landed easily on the mossy floor, the impact not bothering him in the slightest. As far as he could see, there were gentle rolling hills and not a cloud in the sky. Blythe sighed in appreciation and closed his eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the warm breeze. Remembering what happened before, he hesitantly opened his eyes, uncertain of what would happen again.

Blythe started as he saw paths appear before him, each one more intriguing than the next. Although the paths were all different, they all carried a degree of familiarity to him.

Frowning, Blythe looked at the paths and weighed his options. He noticed that while some were well- explored, others were not travelled at all. To him, all of them seemed to be equally logical choices, but he had trouble deciding which seemed best. He chose the simplest option.

Choosing the main path straight ahead of him, Blythe walked forward with a spring in his step, glad to be moving and on his way. As he walked, he noticed that all of his injuries were healed, even ones he had received long ago. This did not bother Blythe in the slightest as he reveled in the moment. This was the best he had felt in years, as if all of his worries and concerns had been lifted from his mind.

He should have known that it would not last.

Up ahead, the scout saw a fork in the road and sped up, wondering what he would see. As he came up to the split, he saw something that shook him out of his reverie.

To his left, he saw a scene of devastation, and something else that he thought he would never have seen again. In the far distance, he could see the piles of corpses. The young scout found himself moving on his own volition, his own horror momentarily stifled by his morbid curiosity.

As he approached the bodies, the smell grew more and more overpowering, the rank smell of death almost too much for the hare. Eyes watering, he looked at the bodies, and he saw that some were stiff in death, clasping weapons in silent solemnity. This was in contrast to others barely alive and struggling to breathe, and a few still had the strength to cry out in pain, as death slowly took them.

The fields, which Blythe had grown used to seeing healthy and alive in all shades of green, were grey and brown, every strand as dead as his comrades.

The thought repeated loudly in his mind as he whipped his head back towards the bodies, looking for some visible faces. His heart fell as he quickly confirmed his suspicions, that they were all from his party. The brave and loyal hares that had died defending one of their own. The one who had failed them.

"Blythe?"

The voice was familiar, but so weak that Blythe could not place it. Looking desperately at the mounds of corpses, he started to run towards them, hoping that the hare still lived long enough so that he could reach him.

At this movement, many voices rose up, all calling his name, even the ones that were dead.

Tears welling down his cheeks, he forced his eyes shut and fell to his knees; the volume of the voices was too much for him. He wanted to disappear, to be away from this awful place. This feeling only worsened when he discovered that he could identify every single voice, even the ones that Blythe saw die in the battle. He wondered if this was the end.

He felt weak, and he was growing weaker.

The voices grew louder in pitch as they grew almost hysterical, each one trying to get Blythe's attention. He tried to shut them all out, but the harder he tried to ignore them, the more insistent they got. Soon some sounded angry, and he heard noises that indicated that something was moving towards him. He felt frightened and alone, more so than he had ever felt in his life.

"Leave me alone!" Blythe shouted fearfully. To his astonishment, they listened, and soon all was quiet.

There was a momentary silence, and Blythe felt something vanish. The awful smells were gone, and the air smelled fresh and clean once again. The slight wind returned, playfully coming and going in fitful spurts as Blythe sighed, happy that the horrible nightmare was over.

He heard soft paw-steps behind him, and he opened his eyes.

All of his comrades stood before him, each one unmoving as they silently watched him, their gazes neutral and their faces revealing nothing.

He felt a gentle paw on his shoulder, and he turned and saw that it was a mouse, around his age or perhaps a little younger. This was in contrast to his eyes, eyes that had seen much and seemed older than time itself. If anything was shrouded, it was not his face, which was creased in a sad smile as he pulled Blythe up from the ground gently.

Nodding his thanks, he glanced back around to see if the hares were still there, which they were. They all remained solemn and straight-backed as they stared at him, arms behind their backs as they stood clearly waiting for something as their gazes never wavered from Blythe. A flickering shade stood at the front, every moment growing slightly stronger as it stared through Blythe, his expression blank. The face was the only one whom he could not place, but this did not bother him as he saw what had changed.

Looking around himself, Blythe discovered that the surroundings had changed on him again, each one stark in their tone.

A couple hundred feet behind the mouse lay the same battlefield that Blythe had just fought on, and walked through. This was in contrast to the surroundings behind the hares, with featured the same gentle rolling hills and sweet scents that made Blythe's heart ache in envy.

He wanted to rest, to close his eyes and to truly be at peace; but he had to know something first.

He pointed to behind the mouse and asked a question to all of them, uncertain as of yet about what answer he would receive.

"What lies over there?"

"Pain."

The voice came from the front, and Blythe remembered him well, as they had been best friends in life. Lancejack, who Blythe remembered with cold realization, had been killed by the fox in the thickest part of the battle. He had wanted to help, but there had been too much distance between them.

Tears filled Blythe's eyes as another spoke up, this time the voice unknown.

"Agony."

The voice had come from the back, and because of this, Blythe could not see the speaker. As the second voice faded, another spoke; this time it the mouse's. The gentle voice was filled with sadness and remorse as he spoke one word, a word that, although simple, was filled with terrible knowledge of what was to come.

"Death."

Blythe turned, and the mouse that had been standing in plain brown robes had been replaced by a warrior covered in armour, and although they looked different, they were the same. The mouse held a sword aloft with four words emblazoned upon it, and with a shiver, Blythe realized who the creature was.

Understanding filled him, and he turned from his comrades and moved towards the mouse. Martin knelt before him as he passed, sword implanted into the ground and his head bowed, paying homage to the sacrifice that Blythe was about to make.

He passed Martin the Warrior and broke out into a jog, which soon turned into a run, and finally a full-out sprint. He held nothing back, pushing himself to his limits as he mentally said goodbye to his comrades for the final time.

"_Your life is nothing but a failure," _a familiar voice whispered as he continued to run, and as he ran forward, his wounds returned, the wounds he had received while journeying throughout life. Before he reached the battlefield, the wound on his arm returned, and as he trotted onto the dead grass, he heard hares call softly the old poem that the Salamandastron hares often repeated to the recently deceased.

_You have served the mountain loyally, _

_But now you have answered the call._

_Into the grassy hills you will now go, _

_And feast in our ancestral halls. _

Blythe smiled grimly at the irony, and re-awakened into a world of pain.

* * *

Blythe looked up, wearily judging the sun's position as he stood on top of the sand dune, the sea's pungent odour for the first time registering to him as the scout wonderingly gazed upon his destination.

"I actually made it," Blythe whispered as he stared at the mountain looming before him. He had never thought to live long enough to deliver his message, but fortune had smiled upon him and he had survived to tell his gruesome story.

He almost expected nothing else; the ghosts of his fallen comrades needed to be avenged.

He moved forward, the sudden shift causing Blythe's whole world to spin as he tumbled and fell down the dune, each impact jolting his arm painfully. Finally, Blythe came to a rest at the bottom, all of the will to continue onward taken out of him.

Something snapped within the scout. He groaned involuntarily as he pushed his paws into the sandy floor, the pain almost overwhelming. He briefly thought of giving up, to lie on the ground and let nature take his course. He felt his resolve weaken, and with a snarl he forced himself to his knees. He would not abandon his mission. It would be completed, at any cost.

This resolution battled with the grim realization that he was growing weaker as the wounds and lack of water took their toll. He just wished that it had waited for a more opportune time.

While the water had run out a day ago and the food a day before that, Blythe still ran, putting the runners from Salamandastron to shame as he sought to complete his odyssey. He would not fail the mission given to him by a dying Captain Striker. Forcing himself, he lightly jogged towards the mountain and forced himself to maintain his pace as he contemplated what he had been told three days earlier.

* * *

Blythe remembered waking up amongst all the bodies, the final desperate heave as he felt them crowding in all around him. He remembered the feeling of elation as he breathed the fresh air, the pounding of his heart as he stumbled away from the bodies; all this mixed with the feelings of relief and shame that overwhelmed him.

Most of all, he remembered the startling sound of Striker breathing, each breath more shallower than the last, as Blythe unsteadily moved towards his Captain.

A warrior to the end, Striker's eyes flew open as he heard Blythe approach. The stark look of relief on his face was heart-rending as Blythe glanced at the deep wounds on the body of the heroic hare. He jumped with a start as Striker began to speak haltingly, but his tone was still certain.

"I don't have long," Striker whispered as Blythe drew closer to him.

Blythe nodded, still completely numbed by the events that had just taken place as Striker breathed a deep breath and sighed, the sound so small that he almost didn't hear it.

"The Abbey... their Dibbuns... all taken, by Him." Blythe knew instantly of whom he was speaking, and with a nod Striker proceeded, every word a little quieter as Blythe stared into his Captain's eyes, watching the life drain out of them slowly.

"Save them. Tell... Lord. Warn mountain, before..." He didn't finish as his eyes rolled back and he slumped backwards, the final effort costing him too much.

Blythe froze for a moment, unable to believe that Striker was dead. He wanted to sit there and grieve for his now lost brothers and sisters. He wanted to dig a hole right beside them and join them, but he simply closed the Captain's eyes before standing; one quick nod was the only eulogy that the Captain would likely ever receive.

For him, it was enough. The brave sacrifice of the Long Patrol hares would not be in vain while he still breathed. He had a job to do, and there would be a time for mourning later.

For now, he dampened the raw emotion that he felt, killed the sadness that filled him to his very soul, and replaced it with something that he could use.

He leaned against a tree to recover briefly, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He remembered the duel with remarkable clarity now, even more then the blood and death. It was now shrouded in a red haze, and within that haze, lay one emotion. Hate.

He looked down and looked at his wounds. Mostly non-lethal, but added together and untreated, they would be a problem. He smiled. They thought he was dead. The fox and his cronies would curse their mothers when the full might of Salamandastron was turned upon them. Blythe smiled eagerly at the thought.

Scavenging what meagre supplies remained, the scout stored them in a miraculously intact pack and slung it over his shoulder, setting off at a jog, before quickly turning it into a full-out run.

Before it was too late for them all.

* * *

The gates opened quickly, and Blythe looked around for the one face he had hoped to see. In his blurred vision, he saw whom he sought and he pushed forward, his arm giving a painful twinge as he stumbled towards Colonel Karth.

When he approached, he could barely do a salute, so gravely injured and tired as he was. Blythe almost fell forward, but gratefully he felt the old hare's paws on his shoulders, steadying him, and abruptly felt ashamed at his weakness. "_Father would be ashamed,_" Blythe thought dully as he dutifully recounted the events that had taken place as precisely as he could. Strangely, he found it easier to focus just on the talking than on anything else.

Blythe had just finished recounting how he had been disarmed when his forehead flared and suddenly felt like it was aflame. He staggered, and he felt a swooping sensation as his vision went dark, his last thoughts wondering why everybeast was shouting.

* * *

Thing are starting to heat up in the past timeline, and I would like to once again thank Sauron Gorthaur for fearlessly wading in and waging war on my spelling and other foul beasties.

If you have read this and have something to say or ask, please read a review or PM me! I read everything that my readers put up, and I take everything into consideration.

Also, Dusktail's cliffhanger will be solved shortly, but with school and other things keeping me busy, my production may slacken briefly.

Never fear, for I am in this for the long haul... and for any interested, you may be too i'm afraid.

Cheers!


	3. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The field in which he strode lay wrought with death. Shrouded and concealed within the mist lay the horrors of war. How he knew this, the Fox was uncertain.

A great battle had been fought here, but when or for what reason, the Fox did not know. Moving quickly, he jogged to the top of a hill that appeared in front of him.

Upon reaching the top of the hill, the mists parted and what the Fox saw disturbed him. Piles upon piles of dead bodies were everywhere, the cause of each of their deaths gruesome beyond belief. All of whom he recognized, but none of which he had met... yet.

Almost at the edge of his vision, a figure appeared. Immediately an intense hatred washed over the Fox. He knew for certain that all of this was the fault of the figure before him.

Suddenly, he felt a weight upon his shoulders. Paying no heed to this, the Fox started running down the hill. As if on cue, his quarry started to run towards him as well.

The field began to fill with mist once again, but the Fox kept his target within his sights, his rage enveloping him like an old friend, while his vision grew red.

Through the chilled air, trumpets blared, and the Fox began to run faster. The shape in the mists picked up his pace also, running with such speed it was as if Hellgates itself was opening up behind him.

Abruptly, war-cries burst forth through the air, and the Fox noticed through the red haze of his rage that a large army had appeared behind him, and had also began to charge at his foe. The bodies had vanished from the field, and the once dead now ran with such passion that the Fox let himself ride it like a wave, a wave of death.

Soon, war-cries sounded from behind the Fox's foe as well, and they too charged with raw, animalistic hatred. The Fox's enemy reacted to this by incredibly running faster than before. The Fox could almost see the figure's face, now only forty paces away.

As the two armies closed in, the Fox reached over his shoulder and reverently pulled forth the sword of Martin and raised it over his head, his bellow out-rivaling any on the battlefield, minus his foe.

The foe never had to reach for his weapon, because it was already in his paws. His yell was full of anger and pain. Pain for what he had lost, and what he was about to lose.

The two armies smashed into one another as Dusktail swung his sword as hard as he could, using his speed and rage to further help the blade's momentum.

The blade collided into the axe's handle with such force that the Badger Lord and Dusktail were pushed backwards, stumbling as the first of both their armies died all around them.

The Badger Lord snarled, and as he pivoted and swung a skull-shattering blow, Dusktails sword vanished, and Dusktail began to scream as he realized what was happening.

His scream was still reverberating off the cavern's walls as he awoke, the last image of the dream still before his eyes as his whole body shook from relief, but also from utter dread at what he had seen.

"It seemed so real," Dusktail whispered.


	4. Chapter 2

_But why; the Badger Lord cried,  
Does it have to be so?  
Just as the wind blows and the rivers flows,  
My agony is unceasing with its lack of control._

Just as the moment came; the moment passed,  
The dagger fell, a gasp, so profound.  
The body in his arms, so light, so smooth,  
But the true weight he carries cannot be removed.

* * *

Chapter 2

Dusktail was now wide awake, with neither his brother Nightshade or his mother having been awakened by his now nightly screams. He stared into the cave's ceiling as he contemplated his thoughts.

His earlier whisper seemed to reverberate in his mind. What was happening to him? Dreams such as the one he had just witnessed seemed to be appearing more frequently, and had also become more and more disturbing.

He noticed that his right paw was clenched around his knife's hilt, and he unclenched it tepidly. He liked his life as it was now. He did not want anything to change, but change seemed to be heading his way, just as the River Moss always flowed south in its unceasing current.

He had thought no one had noticed at first, but he knew in the way his mother had looked at him after the first night, or how his younger brother unknowingly tensed when he spoke that they both knew. He could not remember anything afterward usually... except this most recent dream, which still shone in front of his eyes as if it was still happening.

The more tightly he closed his eyes, the more clear it seemed. What was the sword that he had held, the creatures he had fought for? A name for the sword appeared in his mind, but he could not remember it. Why did it seem so familiar? Both questions weighed heavily as he forced himself to think of something else, something more cheerful.

Later when he would go to do a few allotted tasks, such as gathering some firewood or picking some fresh berries for breakfast, Dusktail began to notice that he had usually been left alone to do these tasks. It had been the first time that he had never had his brother with him when he went to do his chores. His first reaction was a knee-jerk reaction of anger, but it quickly shifted to a sense of relief.

He had needed to think, to try and clear his distressed mind.

He and his brother had been inseparable from the beginning. As the elder brother by a few seasons, Dusktail found himself relegated to the role of a brother and a teacher, teaching his brother how to track and hunt, how to start and maintain a fire, where and when to collect moss, and other things that Dusktail dimly remembered his father teaching him when he was his brother's age.

A lump in Dusktail's throat appeared at the thought of his father, but he shook himself and tried to think of anything but his father. He still remembered the promise his father Barkclaw had made, and how he had later broken it. It had nearly destroyed their family, and Dusktail tried desperately to not think of how it could not have been avoided, and how it really wasn't his fault. He blamed him anyway.

Soon, the bright rays of dawn shone through the cave that Dusktail and his family called home, the sunlight piercing through the hanging moss that protected the family from most of the elements. As his sibling and mother started to stir from their slumber, Dusktail carefully packed some food and left the cave to go to the River Moss.

It was his favorite place as of late to try and puzzle out what these dreams meant for him, and what they meant for the remainder of his family.

* * *

The smell of the sea was heavy in the air as Lord Swiftpaw leaned back in his oak chair and stretched. It was shortly before dawn, but the Badger Lord was still wide awake.

He had been writing far into the night, writing to the best of his recollection about the war that had almost claimed the mountain, and by default the Western Shores, a few years previously. It helped to avoid his dreams and his errant son, Melator.

Swiftpaw reflected sadly that he was doing his best to avoid both these days. The time was swiftly approaching when he would have to deal with his son, and soon he would no longer be able to avoid the issue.

Pushing thoughts of his son aside, the Badger Lord stood up and unconsciously started to pace, his silver fur gleaming in the dying twilight as he thought of the most painful experience of his life.

The main reason for which he had not completed his writings as of yet.

Every time the aging badger had begun to write down the event, he had stopped, and quickly begun to write something else. At first he did not even notice himself doing this, but later it was becoming obvious. He could not blame himself too much; the memories were painful enough already to live with, without forcing himself to relive them fully to record them down.

Lord Swiftpaw sat back down in his chair slowly, his tired frame leaning heavily on the desk. Slowly with a shaking paw the badger picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink, dipping many more times than necessary as he stared at the blank page with apprehension.

With gritted teeth, the silver badger began to write a brief summary, to refer back to later. Relief poured through the badger as he finally began to tell his story, as his mind took him back to a place he had sealed shut in his mind for nearly sixteen seasons.

* * *

Melator stood with his paws behind his back, silently watching dawn approach Salamandastron. Beside him was his lifelong friend Buck, and for once he too was silent as they both watched the sunrise.

Melator and Buck were both camped outside of Salamandastron, and for once Melator did not even care for what his father thought after the last words they had exchanged.

"We both have different ways to grieve," Melator said softly, as he watched the glow of his father's office finally reside, a sign that another day was about to begin.

Buck, astonishingly, again said nothing. Surprised, he turned around and saw the hare was asleep, sleeping as close to the dying embers of their fire as possible.

Grumbling, Melator turned to his left and lifted a pitcher of water that was behind him, and without further delay dumped it entirely on the unassuming hare.

Caught completely by surprise, the hare accidentally rolled onto the embers of the fire while trying to escape the torrent of water. For his trouble the hare received some minor burns on his side.

In pain, the lanky hare leapt up on his foot paws and began running in circles, blissfully unaware of the spectacle he was probably providing the hares back at the mountain on guard duty.

"Melator how could you!" Buck cried in betrayal, trying desperately at once to stop the burning and to dry himself at the same time.

The young badger roared with laughter as his friend began rolling in the sand, and almost fell down laughing as the hare almost rolled in the fire again in a blind frenzy.  
When the hare recovered sufficiently to stop rolling, he tottered over to the badger and plopped himself down beside him.

Melator smiled as the sand-covered hare began spluttering his accusations at him; which Melator barely listened to.

"Some friend you are, wakening a chap in his sleep by dumping a whole river onto him and causing grievous injuries. Bally ungrateful for a friend who stayed up with you all night, wot."

"Just one more 'war wound' to add to the tally," the young badger said with a smirk, remembering when he hare had tried to push a minor cut on his forepaw as a 'war wound' in the mess.

The hare looked at the minor burns at his sides and brightened.

"What a good idea! Now I know for sure how to get the attention of that pretty lieutenant." Picking up a mock severity, the hare started to speak slowly, as if beginning a tale of great importance. "Surrounded by dozens of the rogues, I heroically picked up my spoon-"

"You are about to miss the best part," Melator interrupted, as the last rays of dawn disappeared and the sun began to shine more and more brightly, as if happy to be free after a night of darkness.

"A new day," Buck supplied.

"Very perceptive," the badger replied.

The hare noticeably winced as Melator grinned, and after a brief moment the hare grinned as well, his pain from his 'injuries' momentarily forgotten as they both looked onward to the new day.


	5. Chapter 3

_The knowledge I have gained, so hard to explain._

_Makes it d__ifficult, to continue living with such pain._

_Soon it will be time to leave, to end, to extinguish;  
_

_The work I have begun... I must soon finish._

* * *

Chapter 3

The mouse walked slowly but with great purpose. Despite never having been here before, she somehow still knew where to go, as she walked amongst all of the dead. The tombstones numbered beyond counting while they stretched into the far horizon, their slab surfaces dully gleaming as names suddenly appeared on them. Her heart fell as she saw the names. Every name she saw, she recognized. Desperately, she started running, her brown habit flowing in the wind as she ran to the very end of the graves.

A figure appeared, kneeling on the ground in front of the last grave. Cautiously, she walked forward, not recognizing the creature. What she saw startled her.

A fox, kneeling in front of the graves, was weeping. Gore and mud stained his clothes, but he did not seem to notice, or care. In his right paw was a sword, a sword that seemed oddly familiar. Walking closer, she recognized it and she felt dread, as it was the sword of Martin the Warrior. The words 'I Am That Is' seemed to grow large in her vision as she put a quivering paw onto a nearby grave to steady herself.

She continued watching the fox, watching his weeping that seemingly continued to grow louder and louder. She jumped as he screamed, raw emotion and anger bringing tears to her eyes as she listened to the pain in his cry. Moving forward unconsciously, the young mouse put a paw on his shoulder as the fox shook. Abruptly the weeping stilled as the fox turned his head slowly, gazing at everything around himself, but when he saw nothing he turned back around, back to the death.

"Its all my fault," The fox whispered, his tear-filled eyes staring into nothing as he spoke.

For some reason this made the mouse feel extremely guilty as he continued to stare at the grave. "There was nothing that could have been done," she said quietly, desperate to break the monotony.

The fox stilled at this, and the mouse wondered if she had done the right thing. The fox slowly stood up, the many blood stains in his clothes made the mouse wonder how it was possible the fox could still be alive, much less moving. An aura of malevolence seemed to surround them as the fox looked in her direction for the first time. The fox stared directly through her and she stared back, and started at the red glow that seemed to emanate from his eyes. The Bloodwrath. What had happened to him?

"No," he said quietly, his voice filled with regret. "This-" he turned around and gestured at the countless rows of tombstones, full of creatures that she had come to love and respect. He looked into her eyes the first time, and she felt fear at the rage within his.

"You did." The fox's face turned into an ugly sneer as he hefted his sword and swung the sword directly at her chest.

She watched numbly as he swung the sword of Martin the Warrior. She was frozen as she tried to duck, to scream, to do anything, but she felt rooted to the spot as the sword rammed into her. At this she finally fell, fell into nothing, and then continued to fall as the fox's eyes always seemed to follow her, promising vengeance and death.

As she fell, she wondered at what she had done to deserve the fox's hatred, but for some reason she thought it was not directed at her, but at somebeast else. As she pondered this, the darkness parted and she saw her beloved Redwall. Her heart leapt as the familiar red sandstone came into view, but fell as she saw the condition of it.

Redwall was a burnt-out husk, the ancient walls all but fallen over and the grounds full of colored specks that she knew as bodies, as none of them were moving. As she continued to fall, only one figure stood out amongst all of the death, and she knew who it was.

"I don't mean to capture Redwall," a voice whispered. The mouse looked around wildly, but saw no one as she her descent continued.

As the impact grew closer and closer, she saw the full extent of the destruction and she cried out, reaching out her paw as if to wipe it away. Tears started to fall, and she knew it wasn't just from the wind.

Suddenly, far below, she saw the fox begin to fight in a duel, fighting for his life against an ancient foe, one far more strong and powerful in the ways of war. The badger's silver fur glistened as he slammed his axehead into the sword, and the force of it shattered the ancient blade as the fox fell to his knees.

The voice spoke up again, and despite herself she almost knew what it was about to say.

"Capture is meaningless if you mean to kill," the voice finished. At the sword's breaking, the badger paused, his head lowered as he spoke a few words to the fox briefly. When he received his reply, the badger looked up in her direction, but looked down just as quickly as he raised his weapon.

The voice started to laugh insanely, never pausing to draw breath as the axe fell and separated the fox's head from his shoulders.

The voice continued laughing as the young mouse hit the forest floor.

* * *

It was just after dawn with the sun rising over her beloved Redwall when Sylvaticus woke up, shivering. She thought she should remember something, but she couldn't. This made her more angry than it should have. She had always prided herself on her memory, so why couldn't she remember now, when she needed it most? It could have been a message from Martin the Warrior, Redwall's guiding spirit, for all she knew!

Quickly dressing in a plain brown habit and sandals, Sylvaticus walked out of her room and briskly down the ancient stairs and into the Cavern Hole. Everything was already set up for the big day, and Sylvaticus knew that the whole Abbey was abuzz with excitement over the feast. With the horrible winter they'd had, Sylvaticus couldn't blame them, as there had been precious little joy and excitement for far too long.

With all the games set up with the (always) excellent Redwall food, the one thing that Sylvaticus was most looking forward to was the fellowship of the wonderful creatures that made Redwall what it was. Like a chef watching people eat her creation, Sylvaticus liked nothing more than to just watch her Redwallers happy and satisfied.

As Sylvaticus continued through the Cavern Hole, she remembered when she had first become the Abbess of Redwall, learning to always think of what best to do for everybeast. Abbot Albus, the longest serving Abbot in living memory had just died, and Redwall was torn with indecision with the death of the beloved old mouse.

Of all the Abbeybeasts, she had been hit hardest by his loss, and with summer ending and winter approaching quickly, it was clear that a leader was needed, and quickly. When she had been chosen, her first reaction had not been of delight or happiness, but fear.

After she had accepted the position of Abbess three seasons previously, the Dryditch Fever had returned to terrible effect. It had been the worst time for the Fever to strike as the worst winter in living memory had been rapidly approaching, although nobeast yet knew this at the time.

Fortunately, thanks to adventurers in Redwall's distant past, the Flowers of Icetor now grew wild in Redwall and across Mossflower. Although this time Redwall was better prepared, Sylvaticus could not fathom how severe the Fever would be, even after reading an old dusty journal written by Abbess Vale.

When the Fever had struck, it struck quickly, and without mercy. Many of the elders and Dibbuns had succumbed to the Fever before the symptoms were recognized. Due to word circulating throughout Mossflower that the Fever was spreading, Redwall was soon packed full, which lead to more severe outbreaks throughout the winter, even with the discovery of the disease and the quick countermeasures made to stop it.

Sylvaticus shuddered at the amount of graves there were from the last two seasons, how many wonderful creatures that she'd had to bury. It was almost too much. It was for a while, until Skipper came with his entire Holt and demanded a feast. When she asked him why he merely grinned and said to her, "We're bone-weary, 'ungry travelers, Mother Abbess. You really wouldn't deny starvin' otters our last meal, now would ye?

She had been thankful for his arrival, as things had been looking very bleak. Before Skipper had arrived, only a few other creatures in the Abbey were in any shape to go and gather Flowers of Icetor, especially considering the amount of snow that had begun to fall. After the otters had arrived, Redwall had at last begun to recover, the otters doing most of the work while most of the Abbeybeasts recuperated. Sylvaticus and Redwall owed Skipper and his otters a great debt, and she would never forget it.

Smiling, she rounded a corner and starting walking to the kitchen, where she knew Skipper would be, trying to master his latest effort of Hotroot Soup. As she wandered in she heard a voice shouting at Skipper and she smiled. Their 'arguments' were the stuff of legend around the Abbey.

"You must leave immediately, sir! Your presence violates the sanctity of my kitchen!"

The smell of pastries and soup was overpowering as Sylvaticus stepped into the kitchen. Flour and other cooking ingredients were everywhere as she saw a brief glimpse of the cause of all the commotion. Avoiding a moving trolley full of candied nuts, she moved closer to center of the chaos.

Whilst she was moving towards the arguing pair, she saw a helper moving towards a few untouched pastries. She smiled as she realized the reason for Roch's annoyance. Skipper was well known for his love of pastries and cooking soup, which frequently overlapped as he did his best to annoy and disturb Redwall's cook.

The cook, who was a very fat hare with a huge gut and a massive chef's hat that drooped over the sides of his face, was still yelling at the otter chief, who grinned as he spotted Sylvaticus.

"Here I am, trying to cook a decent meal for myself and the Abbey, and then you blunder in and start to steal important ingredients and begin cooking a meal for yourself!"

Roch started as he saw the Abbess and he saluted briskly, possibly the only thing he could do with any sort of speed nowadays besides cooking up one of his legendary feasts.

"Mother Abbess, could you please escort the Skipper from the kitchens? This wretched otter is interrupting my art form."

Any seriousness the hare wanted to convey was lost entirely as his chef's hat slowly drooped over his eyes and face. The chef then pushed it upwards slowly, and when his eyes reappeared, they were still unblinking as they owlishly stared at the Abbess.

Skipper snorted at this, but allowed himself to be led away. "Uppity rabbit," he whispered loudly as he left.

Sylvaticus chortled but immediately forced herself to seriousness.

"You always have to get a rise of him, don't you?"

Skipper's face was impassive ashe walked, but an anguished roar erupted from the kitchen as they turned the corner.

Where it once was impassive, Skipper's features quickly became the model of thoughtfulness as he listened intently to the cries.

"I wonder what he's lookin' for," Skipper said as he began to chew on something.

Sylvaticus couldn't keep the grin off her face as they left Cavern Hole and opened the main doors.

Sylvaticus reflected on what else she had left to do in the lead up to the feast as she and Skipper walked outside. The air beyond the Abbey doors was sweet and the sky was perfectly blue as she marveled at the beautiful day that awaited her.

Sylvaticus remembered with a jolt that she had to collect some more Flowers of Icetor, as there were still a few creatures inflicted with the Fever, and their supply had almost run out. In the excitement of organizing the feast, she had completely forgotten.

She would have to go by the River Moss and gather some. It was strange how far the Flowers of Icetor had spread since the last outbreak of the Fever, but she was grateful. Without the flowers, Redwall would have only been a shadow of what it once was. Even with the cure, it had been a hard thing to stop, let alone contain to specific sections of the Abbey.

Skipper shook Sylvaticus softly, and he smiled as she snapped back to the present.

"Are you alright there, Abbess?" Skipper asked brightly, the only sign of his concern being the slight narrowing of his eyes. For some reason she did feel tired, even more so than usual.

Furious at herself for her wandering mind, she told Skipper what she had to do and was relieved when he nodded.

"I'll go and fetch me spear then," he said with a smile.

Sylvaticus' smile faltered as she regarded the young Skipper, who had displayed anything but a violent side in his stay at Redwall.

"Is that really necessary?" Sylvaticus spoke softly.

If anything, Skipper's grin turned bigger as he started to walk towards the pond.

Turning around and walking backwards, he called back to the Abbess, "Walkin' with a pretty young slip of a mouse like you through Mossflower at this time o' year? At the very least, I'll 'ave a walkin' stick an' a pack o' vittles."

Sylvaticus smiled vaguely as Skipper rounded the corner and disappeared, but the smile quickly turned into a frown as a knot of worry appeared in her chest. Why that was, however, was beyond her.

Skipper reappeared almost as quickly as he came, with his huge bundle of food hanging over his shoulder and his trusted spear in his right paw. Sylvaticus rolled her eyes at the size of the package. It was enough to feed both of them for a week!

Skipper continued walking forward, and to Sylvaticus' surprise, walked right past her and continued onward to the Abbey gate.

"Last one to the gate goes 'ungry," Skipper called back as he broke out into an awkward trot.

Smiling despite herself, Sylvaticus hitched up her habit and ran to him, and the food.

"I will not go hungry on account of that rogue," the Abbess muttered, as Skipper laughed and ran faster, out into Mossflower Woods.

* * *

Dusktail sat by the river sharpening his knife, as he listened to the stream gurgle and move in its steady pace.

The air was cool and crisp, while the vegetation was blooming and beautiful. Spring had arrived, and he was glad it had, with the winter that they had all gone through.

He glanced at his reflection in the water. The young fox that stared back at him was very different from the Dusktail of two seasons ago. Experienced was a good word for it. Before winter had come, he had been as green as grass.

That had changed quickly as winter began to settle in.

Dusktail still remembered the first day that he had been attacked-remembered with a type of relish that both scared him and confused him. They had been lucky to fight them off, considering their numbers.

Their attackers had been other vermin, like themselves. Simple rats and weasels, a few stoats and foxes. They claimed to have needed shelter from an oncoming storm, and Dusktail had wanted to give it to them. His mother on the other hand, had been reluctant.

"Do you not have your own home?" The white fox had asked them as they stood silently, idly scratching themselves in their ragged clothes.

The vermin had huddled together then, as if to deliberate amongst themselves. Dusktail had frowned at this, but later realized they had taken the opportunity to pull hidden weapons from around themselves and attack.

They had charged, then. All five of them. Dusktail remembered lunging for his knife, but little else.

A red haze had descended upon him then... A lust for death that had to be quenched. His younger brother Nightshade had been worse, nearly frothing at the mouth as they attacked, so lost in his rage he had been.

Dusktail's next memory had been pulling his knife from another fox's throat and pushing the corpse roughly to the snowy floor. As it toppled, he glanced up and saw two others fleeing. It had been just over twenty heartbeats after they had begun. How he knew this, he was uncertain.

His brother had required restraining, as he had wanted to go after the ones that had tried to take his home from him.

"Let me kill 'em all, Dusk!" Nightshade screamed as Dusktail held him back desperately. Ignoring his brothers pleas, the black fox tried to move forward, his right paw still clenched around their father's bloodied sword. Dusktail had found the entire situation saddening, as the eyes that had once been filled with such joy and intelligence had now been filled by something darker, something that would never be completely filled again.

Their innocence was lost. Forever.

The dark-coated fox had continued struggling with Dusktail, and Dusktail himself was desperate to end the situation before it got out of hand. He never had a chance to, since the word, "stop," had been snapped out by their mother.

The one-word command stopped them both.

They both whirled around to see their mother, a bolt in her shoulder as she leaned against a oak tree, watching them with a mournful look. Dusktail was taken aback at the intensity of the stare, but he realized that he was feeling the same. They could never go back to what they had once been.

Dropping their weapons, the brothers had leapt to help their mother, who had given up everything to protect them. Now they tried their best to pay back the debt owed.

She talked to them quietly with instructions as Dusktail pulled the bolt from her shoulder. He marveled at her strength of will, but shuddered at the possibility of losing their mother, something he did not want to face after Barkclaw had abandoned them.

His left paw, which had been holding the sharpening stone, clenched for a moment as he thought of his father, and the promise that had been broken. For a few minutes he dropped his stone and his knife, as thinking of his father had always made him want to stab something.

Forcing himself to think of happier things, he picked up one of the blue flowers that always seemed to grow on this side of the stream. He would make a bouquet for his mother, he decided with a smile. Something nice and pretty to make their lives brighter.

As he began to pick some flowers, his thoughts continued unabated.

He had wished the dreams would go away, but they seemed to follow him, growing worse with each passing day. He had never liked them, but they had been bearable. This latest dream cut too close to home. It had seem too prophetic, a sign of darker things to come.

Looking down at his half-sharpened knife, Dusktail smiled. "A dull blade will turn into a bad day," his father had often told him. After the first incident, and along with a few others, he would never allow himself to dull again, both in mind and in weaponry.

When Dusktail heard footsteps behind him, he assumed it was his brother coming to help him.

It wasn't.

* * *

A **big** thank you to my two new editors, Blazemane and Sauron Gorthaur! Without them this chapter would not have been nearly as good as it is now.

To my readers, thank you for reading and being patient thus far. I hope that it won't be another two weeks for the next chapter, but keep checking and I promise a lot more action and excitement to come!

_To face the future is to face the past._

_Do you not want to this vision to come to pass?_

_Soon you may want to run away, to flee,_

_But you may later find it hard, to breathe._

Cheers!


	6. Chapter 4

_Warrior, how tired you must be._

_Those brief moments, wishing you could be free._

_Realizing at last, that you are alone._

_Desolate, and at the very limit of your control._

_Oh Redwall, what tragic fate you have received._

_Destroyed, with no-beast left to even grieve._

_Just one poor, pitiful figure, all alone and forlorn._

_What he wouldn't give to succumb, and be reborn._

* * *

Chapter 4

_Two seasons ago..._

It was just after mid-night in the late autumn as Sylvaticus walked slowly through Redwall Abbey, staring at everything as if she were seeing it for the first time. The news that she had just received had rocked the young mouse to her very core, and she wanted to go someplace quiet to think. Somewhere peaceful.

As she wandered the Abbey, Sylvaticus began to think of the reasons why she should accept, and the reasons why she shouldn't. Every time she thought over her reasons, her reasoning came off as more and more selfish. She did not want it, but Redwall needed her.

Unconsciously, Sylvaticus soon found herself in a very familiar room, one that had always seemed to hold the answers to Redwall's most sought after questions.

The famous tapestry hung in its familiar place as Martin stood proudly, his eyes always seeming to follow her as the vermin around him fled, not one daring to risk the wrath of such a legendary warrior.

She glided closer to him, the musky scent of the torches on the walls becoming stronger and stronger as she walked closer, going towards the mouse who had given everything for Redwall.

The hero that Redwall sorely needed, now more than ever.

Martin the Warrior was the one creature whom she identified most with at this moment, as she was now expected to do the same thing as he did, to take charge and to lead the Abbey out of a difficult crisis.

Sylvaticus knelt, her dress spreading across the floor as she stared up the Warrior. Usually, the famous image had inspired her. One mouse, standing alone and defeating all comers. It had always inspired her whenever she had gazed upon the ancient tapestry.

Whenever she gazed upon Martin, she felt that she could go out and accomplish the impossible: to do great deeds as he did, to have nothing but your courage.

Truly, one of the many things that would soon be needed for Redwall's continued existence.

She would need it, along with the audacity to do what was right in the seasons to come. To not doubt herself, and to make the best decision in an impossible situation.

But right now, she needed the courage to utter the words that had been on her mind. Words that she had thought since she had first discovered that she was to be the next Mother Abbess of Redwall. She timidly raised a paw and placed it on the tapestry, feeling a silent strength pour through her as she felt the coarse fabric beneath her paw.

Sylvaticus thought of all the others that were more qualified, other good creatures that had been strong and brave. Wise creatures that Redwallers listened to and respected.

They were gone now, and the ones who remained had to be separated from the others so Redwall's legacy could be preserved in the generations to come. It was painful decision, but necessary.

It also wouldn't be the last.

This strange disease had taken almost everyone she had ever loved. That and with Abbot Albus wavering, a successor was sorely needed to help guide Redwall out of its perilous situation.

"Help me, Martin," Sylvaticus uttered in a small voice. "Help Redwall survive, to grow, to prosper as it always has. Redwall is needed more than ever, by more creatures than ever before. Help us fight this, help us win like we have in the past. We need your guidance. I need your guidance-" Sylvaticus's voice broke as she fought back tears and found herself unable to continue.

She wrenched her paw off of the tapestry and scrubbed at her face, unwilling to allow herself to succumb to the guilt that she felt at being one of the few still left.

Hearing quiet paw-steps behind her, she turned and saw the one creature she did not want to see at this particular moment.

Abbot Albus stood leaning heavily on a wooden cane, his once proud demeanor now completely gone- the sickness that he had fought so hard against had all but claimed his broken body.

"I would not waste your time with him child. I do not think Martin listens to any-beast anymore... if he ever did to begin with."

Sylvaticus's recoiled as she watched him. The brief look of agony that permeated his face was almost too much to bear. She turned around, not daring to look at him again, so powerful was his sorrow.

The old Abbot turned and stumbled back towards the sick-bay alone, his self-loathing proving stronger than his pain, at least for now.

Not noticing Albus's departure, Sylvaticus again looked up at the warrior, tears now running down her face as she desperately spoke to Martin, her voice tinged with anger and remorse.

"I don't know if you can hear me, Martin, but I will do my utmost to save Redwall, with or without your help. I swear it on my life."

Sylvaticus stood and turned to leave, not seeing the sad smile on Martin's face, or the gleam in his eyes that was reflected in hers.

She felt a fierce determination to do what was right for Redwall, and for all the creatures that still lived within it. At this, a slight breeze moved through the room and a leaf, one of the few still left, fell to the floor.

Picking it up, the young mouse held it in her paws gingerly, mindful that it could fall apart at any moment. Grabbing the stem, she let the air take it from her paw and she watched it flutter around the room. The mouse felt envious at how uncaring it was, not bothered in the slightest at the direction the wind decided to take it in.

"So be it," Sylvaticus whispered.

* * *

_Present day_

Sylvaticus slowly walked through Mossflower woods, marveling at the beauty that surrounded her. A light wind moved tree branches in slow, circular movements, the leaves dancing to their own particular tune. As the branches swayed in the wind, so did the grass, and it moved sporadically, like a bear awaking from hibernation. The voices of songbirds echoed through Mossflower, filling the mouse with a sense of peace as she walked along the main trail towards River Moss. She felt thankful that they had survived the winter to see and hear such beauty.

"_Thank you, Martin,_" The young Abbess inwardly thanked Redwall's protector, the venerated warrior that had been Redwall's guiding spirit for over a hundred generations. Although of late, it seemed that he had longer been guiding them, as he always had previously.

Many had thought that they had been abandoned, although none spoke it. Sylvaticus had noticed throughout the winter and fall, as Redwall had quickly fallen under the Fever's sway, the less... enthusiasm there had been; to say the least.

Sylvaticus sighed at their collective foolishness. No matter how old Redwall became, no matter how decrepit it would become, Redwall would always be a place of light, and beauty. Martin the Warrior lived _within_ the Abbey; his presence could be felt everywhere. For those two seasons, it had almost felt as if they had been abandoned, such as the time when Cluny the Scourge had Martin forcibly ripped and taken away from them.

With a shudder, Sylvaticus adjusted her shawl, feeling cold all of a sudden. Such thoughts of warlords and death would do nobeast any good. With a mental shake, she forced herself back to the present and realized she was all alone.

"Skipper?" Sylvaticus called out hesitantly, turning rapidly and scanning the entire forest. When she spotted nothing, she sped up her pace, quickly falling into a panic. Mossflower never was completely safe, especially with what had happened to the poor creatures without Redwall's protection-

The young mouse started as a loud _crack_ echoed through the forest. Turning and running towards the noise, she realized that she was running towards River Moss. Worriedly picking up her pace, she almost tripped and fell over the sack of food that Skipper had brought and with a tinge of fear spotted his spear leaning against a tree nearby, with Skipper still unaccounted for.

"Skipper!" Sylvaticus snapped, anger taking over as she spotted the River Moss and began walking towards it, wondering where the rogue could be hiding.

"This isn't funny, you know." No sooner had she said those words, when a large shape exploded forth from the river, completely soaking the Abbess from head to toe in water as Skipper rolled onto the riverbank with a huge grin on his face.

"Yarr, I 'ear that a pretty mouse has been walkin' all alone in Mossflower Woods! Get 'er, lads!"

With a mock snarl, Skipper launched himself from the riverbank towards the Abbess, dirt flying through the air as he propelled himself at the still-recovering mouse.

With a squeak, the Abbess dived to the side, and the Skipper landed head first in the mud, his face dragging through the mud a few feet before coming to a complete stop.

As Skipper stirred, Sylvaticus marched towards the otter, intent on giving him a stern lecture, until she saw that he was shaking uncontrollably.

In a panic, the mouse rolled the otter chief over, expecting the worst. Instead she discovered that Skipper was laughing uproariously, tears rolling down his cheeks as he laughed at his failure.

"Haharrr, we got 'er, lads. Break out the October Ale and Damson Wine! A victory feast for the conquerin' 'eroes!'

Sylvaticus smiled as she stared at the otter, his eyes and lips the only things not covered in mud. Shaking her head, she spoke with a world-weary voice, "You are incorrigible," which only made the otter laugh harder.

Leaving the otter to his merriment, she walked towards the bundle of food and unwrapped it and began setting out lunch. Spotting vittles, the otter stopped laughing immediately and began sneaking towards the food, which contained some of his favorite pastries.

Spotting the mud-covered rogue, she shook her head. "Off with you," she ordered, shaking a spoon.

"Clean yourself off, and then I _may _let you have a nibble of cheese."

Wincing at the cruel mouse's orders, the otter ran towards the river, calling back to the Abbess, "A hard taskmistress you are, but a deal is a deal."

With a huge splash the otter disappeared, and the mouse leaned back against the tree and relaxed, staring again at the beauty surrounding her.

It was a nice day to be alive.

* * *

Dusktail turned from the stream to see the two vermin that had survived their attack on his family.

"We got yew now," the rat nearest to Dusktail snarled, as he drew a scimitar from his side.

The other rat said nothing as he fingered the handle of his massive broadsword, staring at Dusktail with such an intensity that Dusktail was more frightened of him than the other rat.

When the two vermin saw that Dusktail would say nothing, they moved forward, weapons held forward, with a snarl on both of their faces as they moved in for the kill.

Dusktail held his knife out, staring at the gleaming surface as he reflected on what he must now do.

"_Why must I do this?"_ Dusktail thought regretfully as the two vermin loomed ever closer, prowling around him as if he was a wounded deer, waiting for a moment of weakness before lunging in for the kill. He was outnumbered, almost weaponless, with no-where to run or hide.

"_To survive, I now must kill. But must I always kill when there is another solution?"_ The thought echoed throughout his mind as he watched his two foes continuing to circle.

Tired of waiting, the rat that had drawn the scimitar lunged forward, seeking to end this confrontation before it had even started.

Anticipating the move, Dusktail nimbly stepped to his left, watching the rat sail harmlessly by as the other rat leapt forward and swung his broadsword in the same motion. Taken aback at the sheer speed of the move, Dusktail ducked but was not quick enough. Although he avoided the worst of the strike, the top of his left ear was clipped.

The rat, encountering mostly air, tried to control and rein back the swing, but almost struck the other rat as he tried to sneak up on Dusktail and finish him off from behind.

"Watch yerself, yew clumsy oaf!" the rat spat as he dodged the blow.

Seizing the opportunity, Dusktail spun around on the forest floor and threw his dagger at the still- recoiling rat. The fox was rewarded as the dagger buried itself in the rat's flesh almost straight to the hilt. The rat screamed in agony as he desperately clawed at the pommel that was sticking out of his belly, dropping his sword while futilely trying to pull out the knife, growing weaker with each failed attempt as he started to die.

Ignoring the dying vermin, Dusktail leapt for the sword, barely dodging another strike as he rolled and picked up the scimitar in one smooth motion. Seeing his knife still sticking out of the dying rat's belly, he reached over and pulled with all his might. With a silent scream, the rat released it, blood pouring out of his wound as he started to shake uncontrollably, now in his death throes.

Holding the knife and sword in different paws, the fox watched the other rat cautiously as the vermin stared in disbelief as his comrade gave one final shudder and was still. Silence took over the glade as the rat stared at his friend for what seemed like hours.

With a cry, the rat wrenched his head upward and ran forward, his sword held above his head as he sought to avenge his friend's death.

Dusktail waited, bouncing on his footpaws as he waited for the right moment, seeking to do the same thing as he had done with his previous foe.

Dusktail suddenly felt his body being forced forward on its own whim, pushed forward a few paces as the fox suddenly felt something stick out of his back.

Dusktail screamed as the pain began to settle in, and he realized that a large bolt was sticking through his back, and suddenly he felt himself weakening. Still screaming, he rushed towards the rat and crossed the two blades over as the rat's broadsword crashed into them.

Straining, Dusktail found himself being forced to his knees, his breath knocked out of him as the healthy rat began redoubling his efforts and slowly began pushing the sword downward.

"_It's over," _Dusktail thought dully as the vermin's weapon came slowly towards his body, and Dusktail felt completely powerless to stop him. Powerless to stop his inevitable death.

Suddenly, an image appeared in his head: his brother on the ground with arrows riddled through his corpse, his mother kneeling beside him, trying to coax his brother to stay alive for just one more breath, so she wouldn't be left alone...

Pushing with all of his remaining strength, Dusktail forced himself to stand, yelling his agony as the bolt continued to push in on his shoulder, as the rat continued to heave with all his might against the fox's fragile defenses.

His knife and sword still in a rough X, Dusktail felt himself again beginning to weaken, but he was determined to die on his feet. He would not die on the ground, sniveling like a coward.

The fox and rat stood there for a moment, straining, until a smirk appeared on the rat's face as he disengaged and stepped back, ready to deliver the killing blow. Dusktail wearily raised both of his weapons, knowing full well that he was too exhausted to even attempt to stop the blow.

The rat raised his sword and stopped, a look of puzzlement in his eyes as a spear ripped through his chest. The rat fell backwards, twisting to his side as the sword's hilt fell through his nerveless fingers.

Completely disregarding his fallen foe, Dusktail tepidly reached behind his shoulder and felt the bolt sticking there. Giving it a little tug, Dusktail almost passed out from the sheer pain as he stumbled and almost fell.

Re-orientating himself, Dusktail stood panting as exhaustion quickly set in, mixed in with the numbing pain.

Where had the arrow come from, or even the spear? Why had there not been another shot fired at him, now that he was weak?

The questions pounded through his skull as he saw two figures running rapidly toward him. Knowing instantly they were friendly but unsure of how he knew this, he stood there and waited, certain that at least one of his questions was about to be answered.

* * *

The figure stood with a small smile as he watched the young fox dispatch the two rats with little help. Oddly, he felt pride when he should have felt rage with another assassination attempt foiled. He glanced at the ferret next to him, arrow notched and ready as he aimed at the fox's back, ready to fire once again.

Impatiently, the figure waved the archer off, taking note of the hint of anger in the archer's eyes. He would have to be watched, that one. Such skills combined with an obvious obsession of finishing his kills made him dangerous. As long as he could be used, he would live. Otherwise...

He chuckled as he recalled with satisfaction the last vermin that had dared cross him. He had made the conspirator's death long and slow, and he remembered with relish the screams that had filled the air as he had finally finished him off. He had stared at all of the creatures that he had led as he had killed him, by slicing his once captain's throat as the stoat breathed in the last. The terrified looks he had received in return had driven the point home. He had ordered the stoat's mutilated body to be hung, a warning to any other would-be betrayers.

Betraying The Defiler was a path that led to death. Allowing the others to think even for a second that they could cross him would be fatal. Any slight, no matter how small, must be dealt with quickly. The Defiler must appear invincible, if there was any hope of surviving this.

As the figure stood silently with the archer, he noted with irritation that the last kill was not in fact the young fox's but went to an otter, who had thrown his spear an incredible distance to disembowel and kill the rat... before he had a chance to finish the fox off. A pity. He would have liked to see the fox's potential last moments. Always he had maintained that you never really knew a creature until you could look into his eyes as he stared death in the face, know his deepest fears, his darkest desires. Know his pain. The Defiler smiled grimly. Always with each kill, he found himself remembering the one that he had earned his title with, a kill that had earned infamy across the entire known world... oh how he wished he could relive those moments. That beautiful moment of agony, stamped across the stupid beast's features... what had happened afterward.

He snarled at that. He had let his emotion cloud his judgment, although he had thought he had been above that. He would not make that mistake again. Even the most cunning plan could fail, he allowed himself. Meaningless, placating words, all trying to relieve the pain for what had happened next. What he had lost. The pain he had later received as a result of his failure.

He remembered the letter that he had received a few moons previously. _Kill the Warlord's spawn,_ were the only words written. The figure smirked; they were starting to get paranoid about any potential threats. He would have been worried himself, if he wasn't who he was, and realized how valuable he was alive.

Dreaming about Kotir would get them no-where. They needed to act, while the Abbey was still weak. Attacking a former Warlord's progeny was an... interesting choice, although he couldn't complain. The benefits were worth any risk.

Nodding to the ferret beside him, the figure turned around and walked briskly further back into Mossflower;the only hint of their presence was stirring leaves on the mossy floor as they vanished almost as silently as they had come.

* * *

Dusktail looked on in surprise as he made out an otter and mouse running towards him, both around his age. He would have figured they were older, but if they were, it would only be by a season or two.

As he saw them coming closer, he saw movement at the corner of his eye and whipped around, almost expecting another arrow to be flying towards him. Instead he saw nothing and relaxed. It was over, at least for now.

As the two figures came closer, he fingered the arrow in his back. _"I am going to have to deal with this soon,_" Dusktail reflected grimly. He was starting to feel dizzy from the pain.

At last the two pulled up in front of him, and Dusktail realized he still had his weapons in his paws. He thrust his knife in his belt and let the scimitar drop to the forest floor.

"Thank you for saving me," Dusktail began, uncertain whether he should begin the conversation or not. He always had trouble remembering the correct social cues for a conversation, but he found himself not caring right now. There were much bigger things at stake here.

The otter smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. He seemed worried, but he didn't seem overly hostile towards him, of which Dusktail was glad. He had heard of how the Abbey dealt with 'interlopers', and how they didn't care if you were guilty or not. Even with the faintest knowledge of the legendary Abbey's past, Dusktail couldn't find himself to blame them. It was a cruel world they lived in.

"Don't thank me," the otter said with an uncomfortable shrug. "I wouldn't have intervened, 'cept for the Mother Abbess 'ere."

Dusktail turned his gaze to the mouse, who even in Dusktail's pain-filled gaze, was remarkably pretty.

"Thank you," Dusktail told Sylvaticus simply. "I owe you a debt, a debt that I will most likely never able to repay."

Sylvaticus smiled uncomfortably at his thanks, but her gaze sharpened as she noticed his wounds.

"Are you hurt?" The mouse asked, taking in the scrapes and bruises that Dusktail had accumulated in the fight.

Dusktail laughed, but it came out more as a dry cough. "I am fine," the fox said stubbornly and took a step towards the stream where he had left the gathered flowers, and stumbled.

Mouse and otter alike gasped as they saw the shaft sticking out of his shoulder. The otter stared at it, an expression of incredibility on his face as he looked at how deep the arrowhead was imbedded.

"'Ow can you still be conscious?" The otter asked, although it sounded more like a demand.

The mouse moved quickly towards Dusktail and offered her shoulder. "Let me help," the mouse said, her face completely serious.

Dusktail nodded his thanks and continued to stumble towards the stream, and within a few moments, he found the bundle of blue flowers, still remarkably intact after the struggle.

The mouse gasped again and reached out impulsively for the flowers.

"Do you know what these are?"

Dusktail felt his cheeks redden; for some reason he felt incredibly foolish as he held the bundle close to his chest.

"They are flowers. I gather them almost every day, and my mother stirs it into a soup-"

Dusktail recoiled in shame as he remembered for the first that his family was still at home waiting for him, almost completely undefended.

"I see smoke!" The otter called out anxiously.

* * *

A big thanks to my Beta's, Sauron Gorthaur and Blazemane! Without them it would have taken even _longer _for this chapter to come out.

I also would like to apologize for the time it has taken for this chapter to come out. Real life issues mixed in with some hardcore editing made this take a lot longer than I originally intended.

Thank you for reading this, and if you have questions about anything so far, feel free to PM me or to just leave it in a review.

Cheers!


	7. Chapter 5

_While life is cruel, do you think it is bleak?_

_I find it delightful, as you are unique._

_Are you frightened? You should be._

_What life you once had is gone; _

_And you will never be free._

_I see you walking back, thinking of the light,_

_Do not think that you will escape me this night._

_You seek to hide from me and to flee._

_Do you not find it difficult to breathe?_

_A wise choice, my friend, to give up this pointless fight._

_Never fear, it will be painless; you will die this very night._

_For you are mine, and mine alone; it is your time to die._

_For I am Death, and I have claimed what is mine._

Chapter 4 

Dusktail recoiled in horror as he heard Skipper's shout. "_I am too late,_" Dusktail thought mournfully as he too saw the black smoke on the horizon. He knew what he had to do, if he wanted to have any hope of rescuing his family.

Carefully, he put his paw on his back and felt the arrow embedded there. With a snarl, he ripped it out, the force of it pushing the fox on all fours; unable to contain himself, he screamed in pain, his head bent downward. He found that once he had started, he was unable to stop, and he screamed himself hoarse as he felt the blood pour from his open wound. He felt something near his paw, and he grasped it. He felt a silent strength course through him as he grasped the hilt of his sword. He felt temporarily renewed.

Dusktail lurched up to his feet and began to stumble doggedly towards his home, Skipper and Sylvaticus watching silently.

Dusktail pushed on, not caring whether they stared. He meant to either find and rescue his family, or die in the attempt. He would not abandon his mother and brother just like his father had done.

As he walked, he reflected on his mother, strong and willful who had given everything to ensure their survival. He thought of his brother and what they had been through, together.

"_Am I ready to say goodbye?_" Dusktail found that he wasn't. He felt anger, which rapidly turned into rage. He tripped over a root and almost fell, and Dusktail found himself moving faster, as fast as his injuries allowed him as his home came into view.

The entire cave was engulfed in a massive inferno, the smoke almost blinding him as he moved closer. Eventually, he could not get any closer, and he found he could not make himself go further. Despite everything, he still wanted to live. Dusktail felt both elation and self-loathing as he realized that he was not ready to die. Completely overwhelmed by what he just discovered about himself, Dusktail fell to his knees, watching his life burn before him, and he felt helpless.

The fox's rage still simmered, now fed by hatred. Why was he the one to suffer and breathe, while what was left of his life died all around him?

Dusktail felt arms around him, felt paws on his back that tried to stem his wound as his eyes bored into the grave of his family. Involuntarily he gasped, not in anger but in sadness, and let the tears come at last.

"I should have joined them. I should have... died with my family."

Dusktail heard comforting words, felt his wound being patched up, and he felt strange eyes upon him.

He looked up over the inferno, past the smoke and death, and saw the hated features of his father. Dusktail's paw grabbed for his sword, and he attempted to rise but found himself unable to. He contented himself with glaring at his father, and with some measure of shock found that his father did not have a smug look of satisfaction, but instead seemed... sombre.

Dusktail stared at his father, hoping to catch his attention, but his father did not move. Like his son, his entire world had shrunk down to the fire that consumed the cave whole. Dusktail blinked, and his vision swam. He felt his will to exist crumble, and he screamed one word at his father, as his skull exploded in agony.

* * *

Barkclaw jumped as he heard the scream, the sheer passion and tenacity behind it, and shock briefly overwhelmed his rage as he beheld his son, a mirror image of his younger self.

Standing so close to the fire was agony, the closest he had felt since that terrible day, the day when he had suffered his first serious wound.

He looked at his right paw and wondered for a brief moment if he had chosen the right path. He almost laughed at the turn his thoughts had taken him.

"_Regret... all these years later? I thought I had murdered any compassion I had left long ago-"_

The archer next to him seemingly misinterpreted his dark expression and quickly strung his bow and took aim at the young fox.

"Do not attempt to fire, or you will die."

The weasel smirked and pulled back on the string, slightly lifting his bow so he was aiming at Dusktail's skull. Barkclaw thought of his son, and the name he had gave him. His name, once; in a different time, perhaps a better one. He was feeling oddly sentimental as of late.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the weasel about to fire and Barkclaw spun, severing the drawstring with his knife and stabbing the weasel in the throat with his claws, the claws that he been named after.

The archer struggled for a brief moment, but had stopped as his eyes had dimmed, one final sigh escaping from his lips as his body lost all its tension.

Yanking the corpse from his claws, Barkclaw felt cold satisfaction in him, mixed with acceptance. Killing was his first love and nothing would ever redeem his shattered soul. Nothing short of complete forgiveness for his crimes; that and a feeling of remorse.

In the corner of his eye, Barkclaw saw something that filled him with a cold sense of dread. Seizing the vermin he pulled out the letter that had been hidden. Grimly, he reflected that in the struggle it must have been loosened from wherever the weasel had hidden it.

Quickly Barkclaw scanned the words and read it twice over. His eyes widened, and he felt surprise; which quickly turned into elation.

With a cackle, the fox turned and began walking back towards camp, all thoughts of his late wife and eldest son forgotten as he began to plan his revenge on all who wronged him, perceived or not.

"Sweet revenge..."

* * *

Dusktail forced his head up and saw that his father was gone. Dusktail could not believe it: that even his hated father had abandoned him, again.

He felt himself being pulled back, away from the fire and flames, away from the death.

"No," Dusktail mumbled, feebly gripping the habit of Sylvaticus who was trying not to cry. "Let me go to my family."

"I'm going back to the Abbey, Mother Abbess," a voice called out in the distance, and Dusktail found himself slipping as his vision grew darker. Desperately, he fought it, and although his vision did not brighten, it did not darken either. Thankfully, he was keeping it temporarily at bay.

He moved his head incrementally and saw Sylvaticus nervously leaning closer towards him to see if he was alright.

"What is a Mother Abbess?"

As soon as the words came out of his mouth Dusktail felt like a fool, and Sylvaticus rewarded him with a small smile as she sat back, staring at him thoughtfully as Dusktail stared back lethargically.

"A Mother Abbess, or Abbot if you are male, is the head of Redwall Abbey. Most of the major decisions are presided over in someway by the Abbess, and the Abbess needs to be strong, and willing make the right choice, regardless of the situation."

Dusktail mulled over her response for a few moments, and nodded weakly. He liked what he heard so far, but he wanted to know more.

"What is Redwall?"

If anything, Sylvaticus's smile grew wider, and Dusktail felt none of the shame he felt earlier, and instead he wanted to say anything to keep the smile on her face; it distracted him from the pain.

"Redwall is a wondrous place filled with wonderful creatures. Everybeast lives in harmony and everybeast supports each other. I could not imagine a better place to live."

Dusktail sighed. It did sound beautiful, and he felt a deep yearning to go there, but knew he would not be able to go because of who he was.

He leaned back and let his eyes close. He fell asleep quickly and began to dream of a better future for himself and others like him.

* * *

Sylvaticus pulled the now dry rag off of Dusktail's brow noticing worriedly that his fevered breathing had only grown shallower as the time had passed. She wanted to change his bandages on his back but she didn't want to move him, and he _did_ look comfortable, propped up slightly against the tree.

She stood and scanned the woods, hoping against hope that Skipper would appear with help, but the forest was as quiet as it had been for some time, the fire inside the cave now mostly burnt out.

Behind her, she felt a presence, and she turned rapidly, not daring to hope, but instead somebeast very different from what she had in mind was there.

The fox was old enough to be her father, but he still was handsome, his features unmarred except for on his right paw his claws were replaced by ones made of wood. She bit back a cry and stepped back, recognizing him quickly.

Barkclaw laughed lightly, unclasping his sheathed sword from his belt and placing it on the forest floor, keeping eye contact with the young Abbess.

"I mean yeh no harm, young mousie," the fox said with a slight smirk.

Sylvaticus found herself almost overwhelmed with terror, but with a deep breath she forced herself to confront her foe, and her fears.

"What do you want?" the Abbess of Redwall demanded.

Barkclaw grinned and stepped forward. Sylvaticus shied back, and Barkclaw's smile slipped for the first time.

"I've come for my son. Leave him here and I will let you depart in peace."

Sylvaticus looked from Dusktail, breathing ever so slightly, and back to Barkclaw. She could tell the resemblance, but the admission still shocked her.

"He's your-"

Dusktail stopped breathing for a moment, and Sylvaticus anxiously started moving towards him, Barkclaw looking on with a slight frown.

As she knelt to check his pulse, Dusktail gave a slight cough, and started breathing again, even shallower then before.

She looked up at Barkclaw and began speaking quickly.

"He needs the best healers, and whatever you have won't be as good as Redwall can provide," Sylvaticus told him.

Barkclaw stared at his son for a long moment not moving and roughly shook his head as if to clear his mind.

"You better not let him die, Abbess; he has a part to play in what is to come."

He turned, his cloak fluttering behind him, and the Defiler quickly disappeared. Sylvaticus sat back with a sigh and jumped when she heard shouts and general mayhem behind her. She smiled brightly; Skipper had finally arrived.

* * *

As the Defiler stalked away towards his camp, his anger, which had been as hot as the searing flames, started to subside. The meeting with the Abbess of Redwall had forced him to think carefully on his plans, as they had begun to proceed at an... erratic pace.

Without warning, a scout appeared from the bush, and despite himself, Barkclaw jumped. He hated being caught unawares, and the creatures under his control were very wary at risking his wrath. He had been known to brutally punish at the smallest of provocations, something that had been compounded by the recent execution of one of his most 'trusted' underlings. Barkclaw felt a shiver of delight at the agony he had wrought upon the hapless creature.

He forced himself to come back to the matter at paw and regarded the vermin in front of him with a critical eye.

The scrawny rat, who was missing a fang and the tip of his ear, quivered in fear as Barkclaw stared through him. With a sigh, Barkclaw's eyes snapped to his scouts'. He needed information, and he needed it as soon as possible.

"Report," Barkclaw snapped.

With a stutter, the rat hastily began speaking. He stumbled over his words, his report anything but precise, and took too long to deliver the information that Barkclaw wanted, but it was good enough... for now.

"Stop."

The one word command instantly silenced the rat, who nervously stood at attention as Barkclaw drew out the silence, an unbidden smirk appearing on his face as the rat's terrified exterior became more evident by the moment.

"Your incompetence nearly got you killed, but the information you have brought to me is crucial to my plans. I will let you live, but take care in the future. I simply cannot abide failure."

The vermin gulped and tried to speak, but nothing came out.

"Go back to the camp and be quick about it. I do not want to look upon your gormless features any longer."

The rat turned in a panic and began sprinting away, but Barkclaw was no longer paying attention. He had more important things to think about, and a war party to lead.

* * *

From a great distance, Dusktail felt himself being lifted up and put on a stretcher. He felt the sword in his paw, and tried to let go of it. He found that he could not. He would not. It felt as if it was a part of him; and he could not let go of a part of himself.

Suddenly, the scenery changed, and Dusktail found himself in a forest, but one different from the one he was just in. He still had his sword, but instead of in his paws it hung diagonally across his back. He raised his paw to change it but lowered it. It simply felt right.

He moved forward through the fog and saw something that chilled him to the bone.

Before him was a massive gate, which completely blocked his way into the misty area beyond. The gate was black, with chains holding it shut that were so rusted that to Dusktail it seemed that it was opened very rarely. The air smelled stiff, like a muggy summer's day, but not full of life and renewal. Instead it smelled of death.

Dusktail slowly walked towards the gate and put his right paw on it, feeling the roughness of the gate and the cold temperature that cooled his paws. He closed his eyes and opened them.

In front of him was his mother, gazing at him with that little smile on her face that Dusktail had known so well.

Remorse gripped Dusktail, and he found himself trying to speak but unable to say what he wanted. He wanted to say how sorry he was, for abandoning his mother in her time of need. For not being there when he should have been.

For not dying in her place.

Tears welled up in Dusktail's eyes, and he tried to reach through the gate to touch her, but found that he couldn't. He went to try again until he was interrupted.

"Dusktail."

Dusktail's eyes shot up as he saw his mother reaching through the bars and grasping his paws. They felt warm, but cold at the same time.

"You are not ready for this. You have so much left to do my son."

Dusktail finally found his voice and uttered the words that had been on his mind since he had known of her death.

"It is my fault-"

"No, Dusktail. It is not your fault. If you wish to lay blame, blame your father for my death."

Dusktail's face contorted, and his mother (forgot name) stepped back, a look of horror on her face.

"You looked like him, just then. That look in your eyes, the sneer on your face. Do not become an agent of death, my son. Become a force for good and be willing to forgive. You will need it."

"What do you mean?" Dusktail asked, confused at her response. "How could I forgive my father for what he has done to you, and to countless others?"

Dusktail's mother smiled, her white coat shimmering in the mist as she began to walk backwards away from her son, into the grimness of death.

"I did not mention your father when I said you must be willing to forgive, Dusktail. Remember my warning, and remember that I will always love you."

Dusktail watched, his heart breaking as his mother disappeared. He would never see her again. That fact alone was enough to nearly send him over the edge until he saw the gates begin to open slightly. The chains vanished as if they were never there, and Dusktail took a step forward as the gates slowly opened.

Pain coursed through him and Dusktail staggered. The sword on his back felt lighter than it had before, although Dusktail ignored it as his vision began dimming and sharpening. One moment, he felt tired and weak, the next he felt strong and hale. Voices began whispering around him, and Dusktail suddenly had the urge to draw his sword.

He grabbed the pommel from behind his back and slowly drew it, feeling confused as the sword he drew looked and felt far different from the one that he had before.

Four words ran along the blade, and Dusktail for some reason could not read them. What he could understand was the face that stared back at him, a face completely different and alien from his own.

Comprehension dawned upon him, and Dusktail now knew what he had to do. He closed his eyes and saw what awaited: friends and family, foes and enemies, love and loss. All things that pulled Dusktail, pulled him back towards the land of the living. However, there was one thing that stood higher in importance than all the others.

Redwall Abbey beckoned him, and Dusktail opened his eyes.


End file.
